Edicius
by The Bad Joke
Summary: One day he wakes up and all of the pain stops.
1. One Memory

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**Edicius**

_to come back to life, to crave more than what was once given_

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One day he wakes up and all of the pain stops.

His eyelids feel like the heaviest things in the world. It takes time, but eventually he is able to open them. He assumes he has gone blind when the first thing he sees is darkness. It is something he would be okay with actually. A creature like him doesn't deserve a simple pleasure like sight.

An overwhelming feeling of regret immediately washes over him, and he isn't even aware of why. Why doesn't he deserve to see anything; what made him think that? He suddenly wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep – if sleeping was what he was doing. But he feels like he's actually accomplished something small, but very necessary, in just opening his eyes. What point would there be to stop now?

Carefully, he spreads his arms out around him. The ground feels hard and cold. Almost like cement. He's…lying down on cement? Why? It turns out he hasn't gone blind after all because, very slowly, the area around him becomes clear. At least, more clear than it originally was. More clear than darkness.

It looks like a cavern. Almost. The open space surrounding him is massive. Numerous staircases that seem to lead nowhere clutter unspecific areas and large, creaking birdcages – perhaps large enough to trap a human – hang from the ceiling. In fact, there is one hanging above him, swaying back and forth ominously.

It sounds more like a scream every time it creaks.

He stays on the ground, eyes following the cage with each swing, as he wonders. Just where is he exactly? How did he get here? And for how long has he been lying on the ground like this? Not for too long, he hopes. That seems awfully unproductive.

He decides to stop thinking and try to get up. At first he hurriedly assumes this will be easy but it ends up being ridiculously difficult. He doesn't know where to start.

Does he start with his legs or his arms or…or what?

He decides to lift himself off of the ground using his elbows. When one at a time doesn't work, he tries both and pushes. Seems natural enough. He manages to sit up all on his own. He has a feeling he shouldn't feel as proud as he is. A lot more of this weird place is visible once he sits up. It's all just more wonky staircases and birdcages though.

Getting on his feet is the hardest part. When he first tries to stand, his legs wobble uncontrollably and he falls on his face. A little angry about his failure, he quickly tries again. This time he falls on his butt and the next on his side, which actually hurts. He has a feeling that will bruise.

On his fourth try, he takes it slow. He unbends his knees, allowing his legs to adjust before inching himself to his full height. He's actually…very tall. At least he feels tall. Once his body is comfortable with the idea of standing, he walks. Not all at once, of course. He takes gentle, steady steps in no particular direction.

He doesn't know if it's from teaching – reteaching? – himself how to walk or not, but he feels very pleased with himself all of a sudden. Still, he has no idea where he is and maybe it would be a good idea to leave?

Something else catches his attention first: a dark object that seems to be the center of this place, out in the open. A globe. And a funny looking one, at that. The seas don't exist at all. They are nothing more than empty space between the continents which are polluted with bright lights. There isn't an abundance of them though. He goes through the trouble of counting them, which ends up being no trouble at all actually, because there are only twenty-seven of them… Twenty-seven what, exactly?

Curious, he pokes one. He almost expects it to burn or something, but nothing happens. He pokes it and it remains unchanged. How strange. Before he can dwell on the purpose of the lights, he leaves the globe.

Now, how is he going to get out of here?

For hours he ventures this strange, dreary place, and still cannot find the exit. He's walked on the staircases that aren't hanging impossibly off the walls and, like he predicted, they really do lead nowhere. He's followed apparent pathways that lead into dark, dark places, or places he has already been. Starting to feel a little counterproductive, he begins to wonder if there even _is_ an exit.

There is always the option of making his own, but the question is, how?

That's when he finds it – the exit. Or, at least, what used to be an exit. He looks up at several feet of confined space and a clogged hole. He's underground. He feels a bit dumb for not having realized this earlier.

The dirt looks like it hasn't been touched in a long, long time. It looks too compact, too tough. He vaguely wonders if someone wanted to get rid of him and this, this is a tomb of sorts. He can't imagine why anyone would want to lock him away, unless he is meant to be dead or something. That actually doesn't seem like too bad of a guess.

Still, he has no idea how he's going to dig himself out of here. And if he tried, how successful he would be. He grimaces. How inconvenient. He really does not fancy the idea of being stuck here forever.

He retraces his steps until he finds his way back to the globe. He half-heartedly counts the lights again. Twenty-six. Wait, twenty-six? He counts again, and again, until yes – there are only twenty-six now. He wonders why. …Maybe he just miscounted the first time?

He paces around the globe once, twice, and then he is off again, exploring. He just discovers more of what he has already seen. It makes this place seem smaller, somehow. There is only so much stairs and birdcages and odd angles can do for him. But before he retreats back to the globe, the only truly unique object in this entire place, he sees something that catches his interest.

A throne.

It's nothing incredibly fancy, but definitely worthy of admiration. It appears to be made out of smooth black marble. The back of it bursts out into swirls and tendrils that reach up at least a few yards high. White gemstones decorate the throne, becoming more and more concentrated as they reach the highest point of it. He curiously runs his hand along one of its arms. A king's throne, perhaps?

He takes a seat and immediately feels a familiarity, like he belongs here. It's strange, but also comforting. This is the most comfortable he's felt since he woke up. He decides that he'll stay like this for a while.

And he does.

He does for as long as he can. Two days to be exact. Not that he would be aware of any sort of measured time outside of birdcages screaming through silence. A greater sound practically forces him to get up. It's splintering and he's almost positive that the world around him is falling apart.

Some of it actually is.

He stares in disbelief as the ground cracks and separates between his feet. He quickly moves to the globe, as if it will offer him some sort of protection. He watches in amazement as the crack spreads to the walls and breaks those apart as well. The entirety of the area shakes, causing several birdcages to break from their chains and fall loudly to the ground, bending, breaking. They hum through the vibrations the ground causes. Very gradually, everything stops moving. The dust that is left thick in the air begins to dissipate. And then

has he really gone blind now?

A beam of light points at him, shining directly in his face. Although not incredibly bright, he finds himself repelled by the light, and immediately turns away, almost hissing. But this is it, he realizes. Moving closer to the light, to the opening the light is bleeding through, he realizes that this is his way out, his exit.

How convenient.

He's slender enough; he might be able to just slip through. A little cautious, he puts a leg through the opening. And then another. Until he is fully out in the open, out of that dark place. Once both feet hit the ground, he carefully steps over the crack – the one that basically freed him – that has been embedded deeply into the earth. His eyes follow its trail in the ground as it grows larger. He looks back at the opening. He really can't believe it. Such dumb luck. He almost grins to himself but is quickly distracted by the environment around him.

He's not going to lie – if he was expecting anything, it wasn't this.

Everything looks…incredibly bleak, incredibly _sad_. Buildings stand merely as heaps of their former selves. Cars are demolished, overturned, rusting. Where homes have caved in, overwhelming amounts of clutter lay untouched. And it's empty. The only notable living things are a couple of rotting trees. All of this was not caused by that…earthquake, he assumes. No, definitely not. He's not sure how or why, but conditions have been like this for a while. Suddenly spending eternity in a dark cavern-like place doesn't seem so bad. But he has to admit, this is interesting. He should at least check it out.

He carefully surveys the streets of what used to look like a nice little town. He feels like he's looking for something. Probably people. He wonders if there are any here. Going through abandoned homes and stores and schools, it seems like there aren't any. Which is a shame. He could really go for a conversation right now. If someone could at least tell him where he is and why it's like this, that would be wonderful.

He stops by the steps of a hospital. People go to places like these when they aren't feeling well, right? Chances are someone might be here. There is a huge gash in the double doors, but they are already open anyway. He walks in. To his immediate right is a receptionist desk. The top half of a swivel chair sits on the desk, along with an unhooked telephone and some broken pieces of glass. Carefully, he grabs a large piece of glass, examining it for really no good reason. He gets a glimpse of his face in it. He drops the glass, a little startled. Is _that_ what he looks like?

Quickly, he decides to move on. He goes down a corridor of, what he can assume, are rooms for patients. He opens the doors that he is able to, and leaves the ones alone that are locked. Each room is very different in which contents they contain. One has an overturned bed surrounded by crates and empty cans while another is full of tattered pillows. Skeletons fill other rooms. He has to stop looking after a while. Whether the rooms are filled with the dead or only remnants of them, it all makes him feel unbearably miserable.

He figures it would be best to get out of this town. To get away from all of this, at the very least. It's pretty obvious that most, if not all, of the people that were here are now gone. He could look in other places, but he doesn't know how much more of this he can handle without ruining his mood even more. He starts to go back the way he came.

_Clack._

His eyes drift to his feet. …Did he just kick something? All of a sudden, the air turns brisk with a foreign coldness. A thin layer of ice crackles as it covers the surrounding floor and walls. A light gush of wind engulfs his body for the briefest of seconds. Despite the shivers that quake through his body, he is perfectly still.

What is this?

Slowly, but as efficiently as he can, he turns around to find what he hopes is the source of the cold, to at least have it explained. His eyes widen at the presence of a boy. A boy with an armful of collected goods and a deep blue cloak, embroidered with delicate frost patterns, that swallows up most of him. Neither of them moves for the longest time.

Until finally, with his free hand, the boy slowly pulls back the hood of his cloak to reveal an almost terrified face. His lips are horribly chapped, ripped, and bruised. His face is slightly discolored, as if it has suffered from the terrible effects of frostbite. His eyes are a brilliant blue. The dark marks underneath them somehow emphasize this. On his head of white hair is a small crown that appears to be made out of icicles.

This boy… He isn't entirely human, is he?

The boy moves his lips, as if he wants to say something, but no words or sounds escape him. Shivering, the other waits patiently. He's freezing but it's not like he has to be anywhere. And he is terribly curious. Again, the boy's lips move, and this time – _this time_ – with such shock that cracks his pretty voice when he speaks.

"Pitch?"

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I'm terrible at writing multiple chapter fanfictions, I know. That's why I usually only write one-shots. I'm going to _try _to make this several chapters long. I've already started the second chapter, so that's always a good start, right? Basically, I'm not promising anything but I'm going to try. Feel free to leave a review.


	2. Two Memories

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It's practically a gasp this time.

"Pitch?" the boy says again, breathless. "Is that – is that really you?"

_Pitch? _He looks around himself dumbly. Is there supposed to be another person here? Surely the boy couldn't possibly mean him. But it is unmistakable; this kid is looking directly at him, brows furrowed tightly in disbelief.

He wants to speak but really is at a lack of words. Who is Pitch? The boy is talking to him like that's his name or somethi –

It hits him then. It hits him hard and leaves his head pounding. Name. He doesn't have a name. He's been aware of his uncertainty of his location, and why he was in that cavern, but he's failed to realize that he can't identify himself with a name. Pounding, his head is pounding. Not only that, his appearance. He had been unaware of that too. Still kind of is. Who – who is he exactly? He can't remember anything before waking up. A past, a history, he can't remember anything.

Just how long was he asleep?

He – Pitch, apparently that is who he is – looks at the boy, who still appears to be baffled, but takes a carefully step towards him. When his feet press against the thin layer of ice without falter, and create a burst of frost from underneath, he becomes absolutely sure that this kid is not human. Pitch has a slight urge to take a step back, to just leave. A small part of him wants to be alone and figure everything out on his own, but he knows he shouldn't. He's finally found something that can at least speak, and apparently knows who he is. It would be stupid of him to give up such an opportunity.

"And you?" He asks, trying not to seem so startled by his own voice. It's rough, certainly, from disuse. He clears it as quickly and quietly as possible before adding, "Who are you?"

The boy stops before he takes his second step, giving out a humored laugh that sounds sort of empty. He flashes Pitch a toothy grin. The gesture however, like the laugh, seems to be somewhat empty.

"C'mon," he drawls. "I don't care how long it's been. There is _no way_ you don't remember me."

Pitch only offers a tilted head.

The boy's face sinks a little, as if it hurts him to not be remembered. A little disappointed, maybe? He presses his lips into a tight line, which looks like it would hurt considering the shape they're in, but it seems not to bother him. He looks away and then back at Pitch, unclenching his jaw.

"Jack Frost," he says quietly, considerate.

Suddenly, Jack is right in Pitch's face – well, at least as close as he can get to it, he's considerably shorter – before Pitch can register what just happened. His eyes go wide once realization hits. This kid. He's quick. Jack's face turns unsure as he looks into Pitch's eyes, leaning in a bit too close, cocking his head and considering something.

"You really don't remember? Like, in all seriousness?"

Pitch frowns – is he being suspected for lying or something ridiculous like that? – and shakes his head. That's a no.

"You really don't remember me?"

No.

"You don't remember the Guardians?"

No.

"The Man in the Moon?"

No.

"The world… You know, how it was before now?"

Pitch's frown tightens. Does this mean that everything is in this condition? Not just this town, but everywhere? He doesn't like this at all.

"Okay," Jack says, exhaling deeply like all of this is too much to handle, running his free hand though his white hair. He turns away from Pitch and starts walking in circles. Some of the items he has in his one arm jingle slightly. Pitch watches him patiently, curiously. This boy is interesting, to say the least.

Jack stops pacing.

"What _do_ you remember? Let's start there."

Pitch takes a moment to think, really think about what he remembers. But there's nothing before waking up. He sighs, saying, "I suppose it was a few days ago. I found myself in a strange place when I woke up. I wandered around until today. I found a way out and now I'm here. Oh, and apparently my name is Pitch and you are Jack Frost. And we are somehow acquainted?"

Jack goes back to pacing, a little faster this time, in his circle. The ice under his feet grows thicker with each step until finally he stops, shaking his head slightly. Pitch almost expects Jack to steal a glance at him but he doesn't.

"I can't believe…" Jack's voice is quiet at first, but quickly grows louder. "I can't believe this. I mean, you're back after all this time, which is crazy enough. But you also can't remember anything? Just what the heck were you doing before you woke up?"

The tone of his voice could be mistaken as concern. Why does that piss Pitch off?

"Oh, I don't know, what does one usually do before waking up?" he says, folding his hands behind his back, a tad snarky.

Jack makes a face before shaking his head again and running past Pitch, leaving a gust of chilly wind behind him. Pitch turns around, almost nervous that Jack intends to leave him, but he can see the boy standing not too far from him, like he expects him to follow.

"Look, I'm going back home now," Jack says as he pulls his hood back over his head. "You coming?"

Pitch gives a light shrug of his shoulders, which seems to communicate a _well, I don't see why not? _But really, he truly wants to follow this boy. For answers, of course. Now that he thinks about it, he would much rather be in someone's company than all alone in an abandoned town anyway. Plus, this kid seems no doubt useful. He probably knows so much more about the world at large than Pitch does.

"Alright."

Just when he thought maybe they would be walking, Jack shoots down a corridor, out of sight. Pitch's eyes go wide. He feels a little intimidated. Scoffing, he follows Jack in something that couldn't be classified as either walking or running. By the time he reaches where Jack had been, he's already off again. Pitch ends up having to rely on the gusts of wind to determine where Jack is going. Would it kill the little brat to _wait_?

By the time Pitch gets out of the hospital, he sees Jack floating in the air, kicking his feet out as if to gain momentum. He has an awkwardly shaped branch in one of his hands. A staff, maybe. When did he get that?

Jack finally realizes him. "What took you?"

"What took you?" Pitch reiterates, now feeling more intimidated. "Well, I wholeheartedly apologize for not having magical abilities to fly."

"Yeah, well, can't you just use your creepy shadow things to travel?"

"…Creepy shadow things?"

"Yeah, you know, the black sand or whatever," Jack says, making strange motions with his fingers, as if it will help Pitch understand.

"I haven't the slightest clue of what you're talking about."

"You're kidding, right?" Jack lands on the ground like weights were just tied around his ankles. He glides over to Pitch, giving him a once over, looking like he doesn't quite believe what was just said. Or that he doesn't want to believe.

"There's just no way. You lost your memory _and _your powers? How are you even alive?"

Pitch is really starting to get angry now. This Jack kid keeps expecting too much from him. It's not his fault he doesn't remember anything, he's sure. He just needs to stop getting asked questions and get some answers.

He takes a deep breathe. The last thing he needs to do is freak out.

"I don't know."

Jack's expression softens a little. He swings the staff over one of his shoulders and that gesture suddenly seems like the most familiar thing Pitch has seen besides the throne. His eyes narrow while his brain tries to pick out a lost memory, but there's nothing. His mind goes blank. What was he just thinking about?

"Guess I'm going to have to carry you."

That hardly registers right. Jack floats a little closer to the ground and clasps his staff firmly with two hands, holding it out horizontally. He looks down at Pitch expectantly but Pitch, Pitch doesn't get it.

"What are you–?"

"Uhhh, grab onto it?" Jack says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. When Pitch just stares, Jack rolls his eyes and adds, "Just grab on and try not to fall off while I fly there. Sounds like a good plan? Okay, cool. Now come on."

An awkward moment of silence falls between them. Pitch almost wants to laugh. If this kid thinks he's going to fling him into the sky to who knows where, then he's got another thing coming. Impatient, Jack begins to speak up but is cut short when Pitch strides past him without a glance.

"I appreciate the offer, but I think I'll walk, thank you."

Jack is back on the ground, by his side in no time. He has to walk fast to keep up with Pitch. Seriously, he says, "Look, I'm sorry, but we're not walking. It's just not happening."

"And why not?"

"Why not?" Jack laughs, a little sarcastic. "Pitch, I live in Antarctica. Ready, let me say it again: Antarctica. You _can't_ walk there. And even if you could, it'd take forever."

Pitch stops walking, frowning deeply. He would really rather not go for a joyride in the air, but if he wants to stay with Jack, it looks like he has no other choice. Jack looks at him hopefully, maybe even a little excited. Pitch has to admit, even with the all of the bruising and discoloration of his face, Jack is no doubt attractive; but just looking at him makes Pitch angry.

With a heavy sigh, he says a reluctant, "Fine."

Jack grins and, without warning, scoops Pitch up with the crook of his staff and shoots off into the sky. Pitch barely registers that his feet aren't on the ground anymore. Instinctively, he clutches onto the staff and ducks his head down to prevent the air from nipping at his face so much. Only a few seconds of this and he already feels sick. Not to mention Jack could drop him at any time and he would just hit the ground and he really doesn't like this at all.

"Just don't look down," Jack offers playfully.

Pitch hasn't even known this kid for an hour and he's pretty sure he already hates him.

Eventually, they're moving at a steady pace and Pitch is feeling a little less sick. But there's no question that he feels ridiculous with his legs dangling and his hands clutching onto the staff like his life depends on it. He should be at least grateful this isn't boring. He's concentrating so much on hanging on that there's really no energy left for that. Jack seems to be enjoying himself though. He's humming and looks at Pitch every once and a while. Pitch figures it's to make fun of him but the boy actually looks like he's just checking on him, like he's concerned for his well-being. It's annoying.

Somehow, Pitch begins to doze but is quick to stop himself. There's actually a part of him that refuses sleep. A part of him that's maybe a little…scared? He just doesn't want to sleep. There's a chance he would wake up fine but what if he woke up again without any memory? He glares at Jack. It's not like he would be forgetting much, but still.

It must be hours until Jack finally, _finally_ says, "We're here_."_

Jack hovers low to the icy floor of a cliff. Carefully, he lowers Pitch and lets him go once he figures he's gotten his footing. Pitch almost thinks so too, but apparently his legs don't agree well with the change and he falls flat on his face. Jack laughs but is quick to offer Pitch a hand. He just scoffs and bats the other's hand away. By the time he has patted himself down and composed himself, Jack is already walking off. Pitch follows him because what other choice does he have at this point?

Jack is quick to move about the ice and snow. Pitch stares at his toeless socks that peak though the bottom of his cloak with almost every step. Unlike Pitch, for whatever reason, Jack probably isn't cold. Who knows what else he's wearing under that cloak, but even if he was shirtless right now, Pitch has a feeling Jack wouldn't cold. To Pitch's knowledge this boy can fly and make ice, so it wouldn't be strange if chilly temperatures didn't have an affect on him.

"Right over here." Jack ducks into a large irregular shaped hole, an entrance of sorts. He waves at Pitch to follow. Because of his height, Pitch has to duck to the point it's uncomfortable, but he is able to get into whatever this place is.

It's a cave. It actually looks more like a tunnel by how round and smooth the inside is. It's all very cleared out and open at first, but as it goes on a variety of furniture and household appliances and other random junk clutter specific areas. Pitch can't tell what Jack was going for, but he assumes he just wanted the place to look home-like. There are three unmatching chairs huddling around a table, which has a bunch of little knick-knacks on it. Pushed against one of the cave walls are a couch and a coffee table. Untouched candles lay scattered around them. There's an overturned refrigerator in the corner.

"Make yourself at home," Jack says with a grin. He pulls his hood down and whips the cloak from his body, onto one of the chairs. He rests his staff there as well. Pitch is amazed at the amount of layers he was wearing underneath all that time. Jack gropes his side until he finds what he is looking for: a pouch that hangs loosely from his waist. He opens it and dumps all of the stuff he was holding earlier onto the table.

Pitch takes his time to further observe everything while Jack sorts through his findings. On the ground in a basket are some glass cups, pens, and nail polish. In another there is nothing but light bulbs. Are these categorized or just random? Pitch walks over to Jack, who is finding a lot of interest in a ring. He puts it on his finger.

"Hoarder," Pitch says simply.

"Huh?" Jack looks over his shoulder at Pitch. He looks a little shocked that Pitch would say that but quickly brushes it off. He laughs half-heartedly. "Yeah, I guess I kind of am. Must happen when you're feeling lonely."

Pitch suddenly wonders if Jack brought him here for the sole reason of company. He never actually said he would tell Pitch what he knows about him. But if Jack really does know something he needs to spill it.

Jack, having quickly lost interest in whatever he was doing, spins out of his chair and hops on a mountain of pillows that reside on a ledge of ice in a corner. He settles down and spreads out. Pitch has realized how low the boy's attention span is by now and it's very unsettling.

Pitch sighs. "Now that you're all comfy, mind telling me a little bit about me?"

"Oh!" Jack exclaims like he's just realized something. Pitch acknowledges that he never bluntly asked Jack, but it seemed pretty obvious from the beginning didn't it?

"Well uh, what do you want to know?" Jack gets on his stomach and presses his palms against his cheeks to get more comfortable.

"_Everything_." Pitch can't stress this enough.

"Everything, huh?" Jack sounds nervous and Pitch doesn't understand why. "That's… That's a lot of information, you know. A lot to handle. I don't think I should tell you all in one go."

"I'm sure, whatever it is, I can handle it perfectly fine."

By the look on Jack's face, he wasn't expecting that answer. He sucks in a breath and is quick to get on his feet. Pitch watches, annoyed.

"I just totally forgot I have to do something. I'll be right back, I swear. Just uh, stay here, okay?" Jack says a little too quickly and runs out of the cave before Pitch can respond.

It's painfully obvious that Jack is trying to avoid something, and it's either a part of Pitch's past or the entire thing. It might be something that scares him or something he doesn't want Pitch to know about. Could it have something to do with the Guardians, or the Man in the Moon, or whatever Jack had said?

Pitch doesn't care how bad it is. He just wants to know.

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I actually like writing Jack more than I thought I would. I was having fun describing his home. |D But omfg I wrote another chapter that's crazy man. Feel free to review if you would like. Hopefully I can push myself to write another chapter.


	3. Three Memories

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When Pitch checks outside for Jack he's already gone.

Pitch can only wonder where that kid ran – or rather, flew – off to. He figures it would be pointless to look for him, and Jack had told him he would be back, so Pitch shrugs it off and goes back inside.

It's not like there's much to do, but he is really drawing a blank. He's awkward around Jack's home, not quite sure what he's allowed to touch and what's absolutely off limits. Finally he decides to take a seat on the couch because that's what couches are for and this is acceptable, right?

He is only able to sit down for an hour until he realizes that he's starting to get sleepy. He practically jumps off of the couch and forces himself to walk around to wake up, to stay awake. No sleeping. He decides to check out Jack's collection of knick-knacks that are spread out messily on the table. It's all random, really. A small jar, a thermometer, a cat figurine, a pencil sharpener, and a DVD are just a few of the things. Why would Jack want this stuff? Jack had agreed when Pitch called him a hoarder, but it's still bugging. Does loneliness really make you want to take things for yourself and throw them in your home and probably do nothing but stare at them?

Would Pitch have eventually done the same thing if he hadn't encountered Jack?

Pitch decides to look at more of the things Jack has collected. It's not very guest-like of him to do, he knows, but he honestly doesn't feel bad about it. Turns out that the overturned refrigerator is actually a cesspool for more junk. It's not organized at all; everything looks like it was tossed in carelessly. Pitch wants to organize it somehow, mostly because it's bothering him, but it would be made apparent that he was snooping if he did.

There's nothing in here that seems noteworthy. Then again, everything in here could be noteworthy but Pitch wouldn't realize because he's not Jack. He shuts the refrigerator door.

He refuses to actually touch the boy's sleeping space, but he looks around it. It's just made up of pillows and soft things. He realizes that there's a stuffed animal that looks like a bunny on the pillow mound, on its side, alone. It looks extremely worn. Its eyes are gone.

Pitch picks it up hesitantly. On the bottom are a few tags which once held the washing instructions and the name of the company who produced it. On one of the tags, practically washed out and hardly legible are some letters written in marker. It takes a while, but Pitch eventually makes out the letters P, H, I, and E. At least, that's what he thinks they are. PHIE. Is that supposed to be a name or something? He puts the bunny down.

Everything there is to do, he feels like he's already done. Of course, there's always the option of taking a fun journey outside into the snow and ice. As if it isn't cold enough in here already.

He almost wants to sit back down on the couch, but the chances of him falling asleep are too great. It's not like he can stay awake forever – can he? – but he wants to prologue it as long as possible. Besides, Jack probably won't be much longer.

But he is.

Two days.

Pitch considers leaving. But he physically can't. Jack flew him here and he would have to fly him out too. Besides the agonizing method of swimming in dangerous waters, Pitch is literally stranded.

Four days.

He finally realizes that he's not as human as he thought. This long without food? Definitely not human. How old is he, anyway? Just how long was he asleep? How long until…

Did Jack forget about him?

That thought dwells in his head painfully. To be forgotten. Why does that hurt so much? And why is it so familiar – the feeling of being forgotten? He can't exactly place where these feelings are coming from, but they are so vivid and real. He doesn't care if it's a memory trying to break through. He doesn't like this; he wants it to go away.

He has given up and is sitting on the couch, lightly dozing, when Jack finally returns. Pitch opens an eye to see Jack dumping a new collection of junk onto the table. Before Jack notices him, Pitch closes his eye and pretends to sleep, just to see what Jack will do. In reality, he's overwhelmed with both happiness and anger that Jack has returned after so long. He wants so badly to speak with him, to ask him where he was and why he took so long, but he holds it in, even though he's about to burst any second.

Jack's feet move lightly across the ground, but Pitch is still able to count his steps. Soon, Jack's presence is all Pitch can feel. He's practically hovering over him. The boy extends a hand out to touch the other's face, fingers grazing his skin but not quite. It seems like he wants to move his hand further, but he is quick to pull away.

"Are you awake?" Jack whispers carefully, as if he doesn't want to wake Pitch up if he isn't already.

Pitch stays silent and unmoving.

Jack takes this as an opportunity to lightly touch Pitch's cheek. Slowly, almost elegant, he sweeps his fingers over the other's chin and runs them down his neck to his chest. He stops there, hesitant. His hands are tough and cold; Pitch can't help but shiver. Plus, this is the first time he can recall ever been touched. It's strange. Jack either doesn't notice Pitch's shivering or doesn't care, because he leans in and presses his head again his chest. He takes a deep breath in and a slow, shaky breath out. Very quietly, he lets out a sob. That gives Pitch a start. When he opens his eyes, Jack is about to run his hands up his arms. Pitch doesn't understand. What is he doing and why?

"Jack," Pitch says not too loud but not too soft, before Jack can get a firm grip on his arms.

Pitch literally feels Jack's entire body grow tense. Pitch can't bring himself to say anything else. The two of them stay like that, in an awkward silence until Jack slowly tilts his head upwards to look at Pitch. He wears the same horrified expression he had when they first encountered each other.

Then, all of a sudden, Jack has let go of him and backs up far away at the opposite end of the room, looking terrified and ashamed. He starts laughing uneasily, maybe as a way to break the silence, but it just makes things more awkward.

"S-sorry about that," Jack says, smiling nervously and refusing to make eye contact with Pitch.

"It's fine," Pitch says without missing a beat. He means it, too. He's confused why Jack did what he did but he doesn't see what the big deal is.

"You're not mad?" He genuinely seems confused.

"No," Pitch says. "Why were you gone for so long?"

"Oh, uh." Jack looks around himself, rubbing his fingers together as he thinks. Has he always been this awkward in conversation or he is still nervous?

"It's nothing important," he says finally.

"Nothing important? You were gone for several days. I thought you…abandoned me." Pitch has to spit out the last two words. He doesn't like how those words make him sound. They leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Jack's eyes go wide, as if what was just said is absolutely horrible. The way he moves suggests he wants to approach Pitch but is too afraid too, because of earlier. Instead, he says, "I would – I would never abandon you, okay? I – I just wouldn't do that. I'm sorry I was gone for so long, okay? Alright?"

Pitch frowns. Not because he doesn't believe Jack, but because he actually feels _bad_ for Jack. He feels like the boy is so nervous and cares too much about how Pitch feels about him. It's kind of unnerving but he can't hate Jack for it. He's allowed to be nervous, right?

"Alright," Pitch agrees. Jack smiles weakly, relieved.

He pulls down his hood and takes off his cloak, swinging it over one of the chairs. He does the same with the other layers of his outfit until he's only wearing a loose long-sleeve shirt and pants. Pitch calmly watches Jack as he sorts through his new findings, like he had never left, like nothing ever happened. Pitch feels like he should be angry but he isn't. He feels like Jack's attention span is too low to be mad. Pitch settles more comfortably onto the couch as the boy keeps himself amused with little trinkets.

"Who are the Guardians?" Pitch says eventually.

Jack stops what he's doing. "They were…"

He stops. He looks at Pitch for a moment, long enough to see the hope in his golden eyes, and looks away. He pauses heavily before saying, carefully, "They were… I mean, they were kind of like, I dunno, what their name suggests. They protected people. Well, they protected kids. They kept them happy by giving them good stuff like hope and wonder and dreams, you know?"

"Sounds…magical." Pitch feels like Jack is telling him a story. He likes it; he wants to hear more.

"Yeah, that's exactly what it was," Jack says with a soft laugh. "There was one, North, and he was this really jolly guy. He made toys for kids all around the world. Like, everywhere. It took him all year to prepare and then he'd deliver them all in one night."

Pitch almost wants to say wow, because that sounds pretty amazing, but he feels like that would be awfully childish of him, so he keeps his mouth shut. But by the look he gives Jack, he's practically asking him to please continue.

"And then there was Bunny. He was this giant man-rabbit who painted eggs for kids for Easter – you know, the holiday. And then he'd hide them and the kids would find them. It was supposed to be fun, you know? And he spent a lot of time on those eggs. It was – it was nice."

Pitch can't exactly read Jack's expression. He seems happy but at the same time, unbearably sad, like he's glad to tell someone this but it also pains him. Makes him feel bad but he's happy Jack is finally telling him something. He doesn't understand how this ties in with his past though.

Was he a Guardian?

"And then there was Tooth. She was really great. She collected children's teeth, you know, once they fell out and _you seriously don't remember this_?"

Pitch is taken aback. Jack _still_ doesn't believe that he's telling the truth? He thought they cleared this up already.

"I really don't remember," Pitch says sincerely, trying to cover up any irritation he's feeling.

Jack looks down at the cluttered table, pressing his mouth into a thin line. "I just," he starts, "I just don't get it. After all this time, you're back. Why are you back?"

"I don't know," Pitch says, irritation now evident. "I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I came with you, I would figure that out."

"I don't know why you're back!" Jack nearly shouts.

"Then tell me who I am! Just who am I? You said that you knew me before, so tell me now. Who am I, or who was I? I want to know. I _need _to know."

Pitch just now realizes that he's not on the couch anymore, but standing up, only a foot away from Jack, who is also standing up and looking defensive. Pitch waits for a response for several minutes but gets none. He takes a deep breathe.

"Jack, please."

The boy looks away briefly like he's trying to decide on something and then looks back at Pitch. He shakes his head slightly. "Wouldn't you rather remember on your own? I'd be natural that way, right?"

Pitch sighs. "I don't want to _remember_. I want to _know_."

"You don't want to remember?" Jack's ears perk and he seems a bit thrilled by that statement. Very thrilled, actually. Like he's trying to cover up the full extent of the emotion. Pitch finds that odd.

"Just tell me."

"Sure," Jack says. Pitch is shocked by how fast his response is, but relieved. Until he hears the next part. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"What?" He almost wants to laugh. "Why not now?"

"Because there are some things I want to show you."

"…What kind of things?" Pitch asks pointedly.

"Oh, you know, just some places I haven't been to for a while," Jack says with a face Pitch can't read and a shrug of his shoulders. Then he smiles. Unpleasantly, Pitch finds. "Well, some places _we _haven't been to for a while."

"Fine." What else can he say?

The boy's smile widens a little before he goes to plop down on his bed. He stretches and yawns obnoxiously and Pitch is guessing that that means Jack wants to sleep. He sits himself back on the couch and hunches over, his chin buried in his palm. He's surprised that he doesn't jump when two pillows are thrown at his head. He watches them fall into his lap and then glares at Jack, who looks at him innocently.

"Just thought I'd give you a few. Want another?"

Pitch frowns. "I don't sleep."

"Oh," is all Jack says, a little surprised, before he leans comfortably into the pillows. Within minutes, it seems like Jack has fallen asleep. He has an arm wrapped loosely around the stuffed bunny. It's weird seeing him like this, Pitch decides. He's so spontaneous awake, but like this, he's calmer than ever. It's nice. Pitch likes him better like this.

He walks over to Jack, looking down at his mostly still figure. He almost can't believe that he doesn't remember this boy, out of all things. Everything about him seems memorable. More annoying than anything else, but also memorable. He runs a hand through the boy's hair, sighs, and returns back to the couch. He finds himself settling on it and putting one of the pillows under his head. It's actually very comfortable. So comfortable that

he might just

fall

alsee–

He's drowning.

Black horses with wild, golden eyes charge towards him and he's trying, really, _really_ trying, to get away but he can't and there's a grainy substance flooding his mouth as he's drowning, drowning, drowning, drowning so fast. He tries to keep breathing but he's being pulled down under and his heart is beating so fast that it might just burst. His body goes numb with panic as the sky and moon disappear above him and there's no oxygen, no light, no anything but darkness.

And it's the most horrifying thing ever.

He wants nothing in that moment more than to just fall asleep forever and to just for–

"You okay?"

What?

"Pitch!"

Who?

"Pitch, wake up!" A voice practically screams.

His eyes go wide.

_No more sleeping._

He feels cold hands on his shoulders, shaking them hard. His eyes focus on whatever is on top of him. It takes him a moment for him to realize that it's Jack. He's on top of him and looking very concerned.

"Are you okay? You're shaking like crazy."

Jack's right – Pitch is shaking all over. He feels lightheaded and clammy. A groan bubbles in the back of his throat as he tilts his head back. The cool of Jack's body actually feels very nice. A part of him wants to press his body against Jack's, to cool down and he would just feel a lot better faster, but he would never.

"Did you have a nigh… Did you have a dream or something?" Jack asks carefully.

Pitch takes a deep breath, and says, probably a bit stupidly considering how it's hard to speak, "I was drowning. There were these…black horses. At least, that's what I think they were… I couldn't breathe."

Jack's face twists with horror. Pitch is pretty sure Jack didn't mean for him to see it, because he quickly looks away. All Pitch can do is stare at the boy while he regains his composure. He keeps taking deep breaths until his body decides to stop shaking. Jack has gotten up and retrieved a bowl filled with half-melted ice. He uses it to wet a rag and presses it against Pitch's forehead gently. The cool of it feels nice and his eyes flutter shut.

Jack goes back to re-wet the rag and presses it all down Pitch's face and neck. When the boy gets passed his neck, he pulls down his clothes to get the skin there too. By the time Jack is finished with his chest, Pitch is feeling better. He doesn't say anything though. He just calmly watches as the rag travels further down his body. This feels nicer than he would ever admit.

Jack stops when he gets to Pitch's lower belly. The hand that was pulling down his clothes comes to a stop and Jack just stares. He breaths in deeply and licks his battered lips before helping Pitch get his clothes back on and tossing the rag in the bowl.

"What else happened in the dream?" Jack asks suddenly.

Pitch sits himself up carefully. Now he's freezing. How the hell did a bad dream cause his body to overheat in such a cold place?

"It was just the horses. I think they were dragging me away somewhere," he explains. "Maybe…underground? Does that make sense? One second I could see the sky, and the next I couldn't. It was just so dark and I panicked."

He pauses.

"…Do you think it was a memory?"

Jack's lips twitch.

"I don't know," Jack says. "Here, if you're feeling better, let's head out, okay? I have a lot to show you. You are feeling better, right?"

The boy offers him a hand. Pitch stares at it for probably a moment too long before taking it. He almost loses his balance when he is pulled up, but Jack is there to help him. The boy grabs his pouch and takes a couple of things from the table to fill it. He retrieves his robe and then stops to look at Pitch, who curiously watches as Jack goes to his bed, and pulls out a black cloak from underneath all of the pillows. He holds it out to Pitch

"Here, I bet you've been cold for a while. Sorry about that. You can keep it," he says thoughtfully as he hands the cloak to Pitch. "Look, it matches."

Pitch mutters a thank you as he accepts it. Jack throws on his own cloak and looks back at Pitch, who is trying the new article of clothing on.

"You ready?"

"I've been ready," Pitch says, a little annoyed.

Jack just laughs and shoots out of the cave. Pitch, of course, follows, but there's a part of him that tells him that he shouldn't. _Bad news_, a voice in the back of his head whispers. He ignores it, because really, what other choice does he have?

.

.

.

So that's the third chapter. I actually get to describe environments and the state of the world in the next chapter, whoopie. Oh, and to the person who said Jack's home reminds them of Wall-E's, then no, I didn't mean to do that on purpose. I think it's cool that you made that connection though.

The next chapter is where things start to get creepy so yeah that's supposed to be a warning.


End file.
